How to be Awesome
by OwlinAMinor
Summary: A bored Prussian and a lonely Canadian walk into a bar.  The Canadian asks the Prussian to teach him how to be awesome.  The punch line?  The Prussian is no longer bored and the Canadian is no longer lonely.  PruCan.  Threeshot.
1. Ein: Bored and Lonely

**HOW TO BE AWESOME**

**RATING: T**

**PAIRING: PruCan**

**GENRE: Humor & Romance**

**DESCRIPTION: A bored Prussian and a lonely Canadian walk into a bar. The Canadian asks the Prussian to teach him how to be awesome. The punch line? The Prussian is no longer bored and the Canadian is no longer lonely.**

**LENGTH: Threeshot**

**POV: third person, switching between Prussia and Canada**

**A DIS AND A CLAIMER WALK INTO A BAR: Yeah, I don't own Gil's awesomeness or Mattie's cuteness. Or any Hetalia character, for that matter. Or the computer I'm using right now. Or the chair I'm sitting on. I do own a shirt with England on it, though. It's a very awesome shirt.**

**A/N: So, this was originally a oneshot. A _short_ oneshot. But then, I started writing it, and it became a _long_ oneshot. (And by "long," I mean "6,000 words.") Thus, now it's a threeshot. Let there be tomatoes of celebration.**

**Oh, and enjoy the fic, because I'm quite proud of it. (It's my first attempt at PruCan, though, so be warned.)**

**(EDIT: This chapter is being re-posted because my friend, the awesome FlyingSolo365, made a suggestion in her review that I'm editing into the chapter. It's a little addition to Feli's message. :) ALSO: Chapter three is ... uh ... well, it's all typed up, but ... I left it on my dad's laptop without emailing it to myself or uploading it to FFnet or putting it on my flashdrive, and now, my dad's laptop is, like, five states away. I KNOW, I'M AN IDIOT. FEEL FREE TO YELL AT ME/WHACK ME/THROW THINGS AT ME/LOCK ME IN A ROOM WITH RUSSIA FOR A FEW HOURS/WHATEVER.)  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Ein: Bored and Lonely<strong>

Gilbert **Awesome** Beilschmidt was bored.

Now, this was nothing out of the ordinary; it didn't take much to bore the former nation. He could get bored eating breakfast in the morning, standing in the shower, waiting for Austria to walk into a cleverly designed trap, washing Gilbird, listening to a conversation that didn't involve his** awesomeness**, watching TV, reading a book, talking to someone, trying to fall asleep at night, drinking, having sex … anything, really.

Prussia got bored an average of two hundred and fifty three point four six times a day, and whenever it happened, he would shout, "I'M BORED!" to anyone within a ten mile radius. The shouting was because he figured that if people knew he was bored, they would flock to him and entertain him with compliments about how **awesome** he was, free beer, free porn, strip shows, embarrassing photos and/or videos of his friends and/or enemies and/or family … et cetra.

Because, after all, what more **awesome** pastime is there than entertaining the **awesomeness** that is Gilbert **Awesome** Beilschmidt?

Besides actually _being_ the **awesomeness** that is Gilbert **Awesome** Beilschmidt, of course.

But for some un-**awesome **reason, that never happened. Instead, people would usually just yell at Prussia for giving them headaches (Roderich), whack him with frying pans (Elizaveta), offer to have sex with him (Francis), cower from him (Feliciano), head-butt him (Lovino), absentmindedly ignore him (Antonio), sigh and kindly ask him to go be bored somewhere else (Ludwig), politely excuse themselves (Kiku), start talking about themselves (Alfred), dump tea on his head (Arthur), ask to become one, _da_ (Ivan), or simply walk away slowly (anyone else.)

This particular occurrence of the boredom plague, after yelling, "I'M BORED!" and getting no response (except for Gilbird waking up from his nap and pooping on his head, which didn't count since it was totally un-**awesome** and gross), Prussia decided to resort to plan B: call his friends and threaten them with bloody murder until they found a way to make him un-bored.

He fished around in his pants pockets for his **awesome** cell phone for a Jeapordy-theme-song-repetition or so, to no avail. Then, he remembered: he had accidentally dropped it in Roderich's toilet the other day while rigging a bucket of water to fall on the aristocrat when he walked in. (A really good prank – or, at least, it would've been if Switzerland hadn't walked in first. Damn un-**awesome** Swiss dude with his damned un-**awesome** gun.)

_Oh, well, I guess I'll have to use the home phone and the phone book, then._

Luckily, the phone book with all the nations' numbers in it was still sitting next to the kitchen landline. Gilbert went through it, calling anyone whom he thought might be willing to entertain him. (And by "might be willing to entertain him," he meant "he had a way to bribe said person into entertaining him.")

Alfred: "Yo, 'sup? This is Alfred F. Jones, a.k.a. America, a.k.a. THE HERO! I'm probably eating a burger or screwing Iggy right now – Hey, don't say that, bloody git! – Why not? It's true! – but if you leave a cool enough message I'll get back to you sometime soon! C'ya!"

Antonio: "_Hola_! This is Antonio Carriedo, or Spain, whichever you want to call me, _mi amigo_. I'm probably out with _mi Lovinito_~ and can't talk to you, _lo siento_, but leave a message and I'll call you back!~ _Adios_!~"

Arthur: "Whoever the bloody hell this is, I'm obviously busy right now, so bugger off. Seriously. I mean it. Good day."

Elizaveta: "Hi, this is Elizaveta Héderváry or Hungary. I can't talk right now (probably whacking someone with a frying pan or video-taping some yaoi) but leave me a message and I'll call you back! Oh, and Gilbert, if this is you, _you're dead_. Bye!~"

Feliciano: "_Ciao_!~ Feliciano Vargas, North Italy, here, ve!~ I'm out eating pasta or with Luddy, so I can't talk on the phone, but leave me a message and I'll call you back, ve!~ _Hasta la pasta_!~.. Luddy? - Ja? - How do I end it? - You press the star button. - Which one is that? - Here -"

Francis: "_Bonjour_, you have reached the greatest, most passionate, sexiest country (and best cook) in the universe. Leave me a sexy message and I'll call you back … _sexily_. _Au revoir_."

Ivan: "_Privyet_. You will become one with Russia, _da_? Leave me a message and tell me that your answer is _da_. _Dasvedanya_!~"

Kiku: "_Konichiwa_. This is Kiku Honda, also known as Japan. I cannot come to the phone right now, but leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. _Arigato. Gokigen'yo_."

Lovino: "FUCK OFF, DAMN BASTARD."

Ludgwig: "_Guten tag_. This is Ludwig Beilschmidt, also known as Germany. I cannot come to the phone right now – Germany! Germany! – Shut up, Italy! Can't you see that I'm working? – but leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. _Danke_. _Auf Wiedersehen_."

In between West's number and the next number Prussia planned on dialing (Roderich's), he noticed one with a name that he didn't recognize:

_Matthew Williams, Canada._

_What the hell, _Gilbert thought. _The __**Awesome**__ Me'll call this guy. Maybe he'll actually be __**awesome**__ enough to actually answer the damned phone, unlike all these un-__**awesome**__ beer-haters._

* * *

><p>Matthew Williams had always admired Gilbert Beilschmidt.<p>

He was cocky, confident, arrogant, tall, noticeable, handsome, able to speak up for himself, **awesome** … everything the plain, shy, invisible Canadian wasn't. When Gilbert strode into a room, everyone looked at him. When he spoke, everyone listened to him. When he did something important, everyone paid attention to him. And the best part was: the Prussian didn't even care what they thought. No matter what happened, he held on to the firm believe that _he was __**awesome**_.

Matthew wished he could do that.

So he had always watched Gilbert, looking for his secrets; sitting near him at world meetings, asking his brother what Prussia was up to, following him on the internet, and other stuff like that. He was much too timid to actually approach the Prussian and ask him for advice, so stalking him was the Canadian's only method of trying to figure things out.

Besides, it wasn't as if he had anything better to do.

Thus, when Gilbert called Matthew and asked him if he'd like to do something together, Matthew was ecstatic.

Surely, in a few hours together with the Prussian, he could find a way to ask for advice …

… Right?

* * *

><p>At the bar they'd agreed to meet at, waiting for Gilbert to show up, Matthew began to feel nervous.<p>

Well, okay. That was a lie. The Canadian was _always_ nervous. Saying that this was the point where he began to feel really, extremely, oh-shit-I'm-going-to-jizz-my-pants-ly nervous. Questions whizzed around his head like New Yorkers during lunch hour: _Will he like me? Will I get the courage to ask him? What will happen? Will I get drunk? Will he get drunk? What'll I do if he gets drunk and I don't? What will I even drink? Will he like me? Will he notice me in the first place?_

Then, a taxi pulled up to the street curb, Prussia stepped out, and all Canada's thoughts flew out of his mind and into the late summer evening air (which they liked a lot better, as the space wasn't nearly as cramped.)

Everything about the Prussian screamed "badass": the jet-black skinny jeans that hugged his (_very fine_) ass perfectly, the crop poking out of said jeans, the tall combat boots covered in what may have been bloodstains, the t-shirt reading "You can't have **AWESOME** without ME," the hands casually thrust into the pockets of an expensive-looking leather jacket, the dark sunglasses hiding his eyes, the tousled silver hair, and the confident smirk. One would think that all that black would only make the albino look paler, but somehow, it only added to his badass-ness. Matthew, with his blue jeans and huge red sweatshirt, felt average and lame in comparison. The more he stared at Prussia (with what probably were totally un-bashful wide eyes and a gaping mouth), the more he thought that he couldn't possibly ever be as **awesome** as Gilbert **Awesome** Beilschmidt.

Plus, well, _damn_. He'd forgotten just how _hot_ that Prussian was. Even with a little yellow chicken … chick … Gilbird … thing perched in his hair, he was a pleasure to look at, especially for one particular sex-deprived Canadian.

Ahem.

Anyway.

While Matthew was standing awkwardly on the sidewalk, blushing, and no, that wasn't drool, it was, uh, sweat, since he was, y'know, too warm, from, uh, wearing a sweatshirt in August, Gilbert was striding over to him.

"_Guten tag!_" he greeted Canada. "Hey, The **Awesome** Me recognizes you!"

_Oh, here it comes_, Matthew thought sadly. _He's going to think I'm Al, and everything will just go downhill from the –_

"You're Alfie's brother! Mattie, right?"

Okay. Well. If Prussia had been **awesome** in Canada's eyes before, he was incredibly-super-mega-**awesome**-times-one-trillion now. Someone actually remembering the Canadian's name without having to be reminded was rarer than a person alive whose virginity France wouldn't willingly take.

"Uh, yeah," Matthew said when he regained the ability to speak. "I am. And you're Gilbert, right?" (As if he needed to ask.)

"Gilbert **Awesome** Beilschmidt," the Prussian confirmed with a grin. "But you can call me Gil. Or **Awesome**. So, Mattie, let's go get totally, completely, **awesomely** dead drunk, okay?"

"But that wasn't really what I had in mind," Canada mumbled.

Unfortunately, it _was_ what Prussia had in mind. And what Prussia had in mind was what Prussia was going to do.

Because he was just **awesome** like that.

* * *

><p>Gilbert drank himself into unconsciousness pretty much every night – Gott, how else would he get to a nightmare-free sleep – but every night, he re-discovered how insanely <strong>awesome<strong> it was.

The laugher, the bad jokes, the drinking songs, the slurring, the stumbling, the flirting, the rejections from the girls he horribly flirted with, the sex with whomever happened to be closest to him when his alcohol level hit the complete-loss-of-inhibitions stage … he loved every **awesome** part of it. The fact that the more he drank, the more **awesome** he felt also helped.

And tonight, of course, was no exception.

Prussia was the life of the bar; everyone loved him and he loved everybody. (Or so he believed.) The bartender even gave him a few free beers! How **awesome** was that?

Every so often, he would glance over to check on his companion. Mattie didn't look like he was feeling very **awesome**. The Canadian was slumped face-down on the bar counter, his head in his arms, his glass of French wine untouched. _SAD SAD LONELY LONELY ANGST ANGST_ vibes were coming off of him in waves.

_Weird_, Gilbert thought. _He was perfectly fine a minute ago. Or was it an hour ago? I dunno. I should probably try to cheer him up. Being that un-__**awesome**__ in the presence of my __**awesomeness**__ is total blasphemy. Very un-__**awesome**__._

"Hey, Mattie? What's wrong?" Gilbert asked, leaning down so that his face was right next to Matthew's. Only he was more than a little drunk, so it came out more like, "Ey, Ma'ie? Wha's ong?"

"Nothin'," the Canadian mumbled.

"Ob'vous'y som'in," the Prussian argued. "Or ya woul'd 'e loo'n so un-**awesome**."

"How much have you drunk?" Matthew inquired, avoiding the question.

"Fif'een mu's o' 'eer, hy?"

The Canadian let out a groan and banged his head against the wooden counter, letting out a hollow _THUD_.

"Wha'?"

"If you have two more, you'll totally lose your mind and I'll never be able to ask you!" Canada explained.

"Yah … wai', how'd ya kno' tha'?"

"Your blog."

Prussia still looked confused.

"You posted the results of that experiment you and Spain and France did about how many beers you could drink before you passed out."

Oh. Gilbert remembered that. But he didn't think anyone actually _read_ that blog.

"Wha'd ya wan' t'as' me?" he slurred.

Canada mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "I was hoping you'd forget about that," then said, "I want … I mean, I would like … I mean, it'd be great if … I mean, would you please …"

"WHAT?" Prussia was getting impatient. He had a mug of beer to finish.

"Um … uh … sorry … just … please … teach me how to be **awesome**."

"'Ow t' 'e **awesome**?"

"Yeah."

The Prussian took a swig of beer, and then seemed to consider the idea. (He wasn't actually considering the idea; he was staring at the impressive figure of one of the bartenders. But Matthew didn't need to know that.)

The Canadian, assuming that he would be turned down, began to babble in the hopes that something he said would convince Gilbert to teach him.

"See, if you hadn't noticed this already, I'm sorta … invisible with the other countries, they never notice me or remember me or think I'm important, even when I try to make myself noticeable. You're really noticeable – no offense or anything, I meant it in a good way – and I thought if you taught me how to be **awesome**, then I'd be **awesome**, and people would start noticing me, and …"

As Matthew went through diarrhea of the mouth, the Prussian really looked at him for the first time in … well … ever. Even though he was practically drunk and not thinking clearly, he found himself noticing things. He noticed how even though the Canadian seemed to dress sloppily, his jeans and sweatshirt were of **awesome** quality. He noticed that Matthew's long, golden bangs flopped over his face, hiding it from the world – _which is good, _Prussia thought, _because only really __**awesome**__ people deserve to see that __**awesome**__ face – wait, what? _He noticed the inexplicable piece of hair that bounced upward nervously. He noticed the adorable little smile adorning the Canadian's face. He noticed the glasses that, even though they seemed geeky, simply added to Matthew's cuteness. He noticed the straight line of Canada's nose, the tiny dimple in his cheek, the slight blush on his face, and a million other things, but most of all, he noticed Matthew's eyes.

Those eyes were violet. Not blue, not green, not brown, not hazel, not even golden, but _violet_. The sort of violet that visits only the most beautiful sunsets. The sort of violet that can make a painter weep. The sort of violet that is worn on the figures of royalty. The sort of violet that one particular love-deprived Prussian could fall into and _never find his way back out of._

And as he noticed all of those things about Matthew, Gilbert noticed something about himself: as the Canadian rambled about how he was invisible and all he wanted was for people to notice him – topics that didn't involve Prussia at all – _Gilbert wasn't bored._

On the contrary, he was _interested. Intrigued. Excited,_ even.

Most of all, he was _eager_. Eager to help, eager to teach someone else how to be **awesome**, eager to learn more about this new way of feeling where things not involving him didn't make him bored, and eager to get to know Matthew. Because the Canadian seemed like he had the makings of a really **awesome** person. Not as **awesome** as Gilbert, of course, but pretty damn close.

"O'ay, Ma'ie. I'll 'each ya."

"You will? Really?"

"Yah. 'Spec' me a' yer 'ouse om'orrow a' 'oon."

* * *

><p><strong>Random comment for you: "Come over here, please. I want to introduce you to someone very special to me. His name is Gilbert, he is my trench, and he is very, <strong>_**very**_** awesome."**

**There is a story behind that quote, and if you review, I'll tell it to you.**

**(Yeah, I know, I'm so good at bribery.)**

**(But seriously, I love reviews. So leave one … please?)**


	2. Zwei: Not Bored and Lonely

**HOW TO BE AWESOME**

**Here's part two! Let there be tomatoes of celebration! :D**

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><p><strong>ZWEI: Not Bored and Lonely<strong>

"Hey, Mattie! Check out this awesome list I made of ways for you to be **awesome**!"

"Um, okay …"

"Come on, read it!"

"Uh … 'How to be **Awesome** (by Gilbert **Awesome** Beilschmidt): One, talk **awesomely**. Two, act **awesomely**. Three, think **awesomely**. Four, make sure everyone knows how **awesome** you are. Five, eat only **awesome** foods (like wurst and potatoes.) Gil, uh …"

"What? Is my list not the most **awesome** thing you've ever read?"

"Well … you can't really define something by using the word you're trying to define in its definition."

"Huh? You're confusing The **Awesome** Me."

"It's just … well … uh …"

"What?"

"Oh, never mind."

"Then, we can move on to our first **awesome **lesson about how to be **awesome**! Okay, so, to talk **awesomely**, you have to talk in a way that's really **awesome**. Like, use the word **awesome** as much as possible, refer to yourself as The **Awesome** Me, and constantly remind everyone else how **awesome **you are and how **awesome** everything you do or say is. Mattie, are you writing this down?"

Thus began Mattie's long and grueling training.

The very first thing the Canadian learned was that his teacher was, in fact, a horrible teacher. He had zero ability to explain things. When asked how to be **awesome**, his answer was, "Be **awesome**, duh!" When told that that made no sense, his reply was, "It doesn't matter if it makes sense or not, because The **Awesome** Me thought of it, which makes it **awesome**!" He had no patience and would give up on attempting to teach Matthew something after five minutes. He was easily bored and distracted, and would often call off a "lesson" to point out a weirdly shape cloud or describe an elaborate plot he planned on using to humiliate Austria.

As a combination of these unfortunate things, by the end of two weeks of **Awesome** Lessons, Matthew had learned practically nothing. Not even observing Gilbert during the lesson taught him anything; there was no pattern or reason for how the Prussian acted, talked, and thought except for an endless repetition of the word "**awesome**."

Yet, for some reason the Canadian was still enjoying his lessons. Maybe it was Prussia's hilarious jokes and antics; maybe it was his beautiful grin when he found something he liked; maybe it was that body that Canada found himself staring at when Gilbert wasn't looking; maybe it was just the presence of someone else in his house that actually recognized Matthew for who he was; maybe it was a combination of all four; maybe it was something else altogether; but something about those lessons made Canada actually eager to wake up in the morning for the first time in decades.

The very first thing the Prussian learned was that his pupil didn't have any self-confidence whatsoever. Matthew wanted to be confident, arrogant, noticeable, all the good qualities that came with **awesomeness**. The problem with that was that the Canadian was exactly the opposite of all of those things and Prussia had no idea how to teach him how to solve that. Personality traits weren't just clothes one could pick out of a box and try on, after all. In order to change one's personality, one had to _work_ at it. And, well, Gilbert had never had to _work_ at being **awesome**. He'd been born **awesome**. How does someone who's always been **awesome** by just being **awesome** teach someone who's never been **awesome** to be **awesome**? Prussia had no idea.

Thus, it turned out that the one who learned the most from the **Awesome** Lessons was Gilbert.

During those lessons, Prussia realized that there was a reason nobody wanted to have him around anymore: even though he was **awesome**, he was also rude, obnoxious, and annoying. Canada was none of those things. So, Prussia started to watch. He learned simple things, like saying "Please" and "Thank you." He learned more complicated things, like how to make someone feel respected. He learned things he had never thought he needed to know before, like how to apologize when he did something wrong.

He also learned that, even though Matthew was quiet, shy, invisible, and not confident, he was polite, kind, generous, and caring.

Which, in Gilbert's opinion, made the Canadian pretty fucking **awesome.**

* * *

><p>It was the World Meeting time again, and even though Spain was hosting, he'd been too "preoccupied with national affairs" (which everyone knew translated to "busy making love to Romano") to actually plan the meeting, so the actual running of the meeting fell to Germany. Again. Because Germany was actually a pretty nice person, he let his brother attend the meeting even though Prussia technically wasn't a country any more. That explained how the Prussian came to be invading Canada's hotel room the night before the meeting. Well, not invading so much as <em>visiting<em>. (It's not really an invasion when the person you're invading lets you in, after all. But Prussia liked to call it invading, because that sounded so much more **awesome**.)

Gilbert lay sprawled on the bed with his laptop, sniggering at an elaborate, horrible, violent, and very **awesome** (in his opinion) Austria/Hungary fan fiction he'd written involving blood, guts, bombs, guns, tanks, cake, and the death of Mozart. Matthew was trying (and failing) to convince Gilbird to not roost in his hair.

"Hey, Mattie?" Prussia said suddenly.

"_Oui_?" Canada answered, letting Gilbird stay momentarily.

"For the meeting tomorrow, I got West to give you a ten-minute time block."

"You … _what_?"

"Got West to give you a ten-minute time block," Gilbert repeated calmly.

After Prussia said it a second time, it seemed to sink in to the Canadian's mind. Which wasn't a good thing, because it caused him to freak out. And not a _minor_ freak out, either; it was a major, spazzing, flailing, eyes-bugging-out, talking-a-mile-a-minute, holy-sweet-whale-carcass-Germany-is-making-out-with-Romano, un-**awesome** freak out. It would've been fun to watch (after all, without schadenfreude, there would be no freude) if Prussia wasn't so worried that Canada would fall into something and hurt himself.

…

Wait just a second. Since when was _Prussia_, the egotistic, self-loving _bastard_, concerned about the welfare of others?

Was Poland suddenly _straight_ or something?

Minor world crisis aside, it had been ten minutes, and the normally-quiet Matthew was still panicking.

"– and what if they all _stare_ at me like they don't know who I am, because they don't know who I am, and they all ignore me, and Greece and Turkey start a war in the middle of the meeting again, and a hippopotamus falls out of nowhere, and Italy gets pregnant for no apparent reason whatsoever, and I bet nobody is even reading this because they all want to skip to the make-out scene at the end of the fan fiction, and something gets set on fire, and Hungary goes off on an evil rampage with her frying pan, and Switzerland starts shooting everyone except Austria and Liechtenstein, and I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY OH MON DIEU –"

"Mattie," Gilbert said firmly, taking a hold of the Canadian's shoulders and shaking him until he stopped blabbering. For such a weakling, he had surprisingly **awesome** shoulders – all firm and muscular, maybe from his lumberjack work and wilderness trecks, and …

…

Anyway.

"You'll tell them that you're **awesome** and you know it and you won't be ignored anymore," the Prussian explained simply.

This only seemed to upset the Canadian further.

"But I don't know _how_!" he wailed. "I don't know how to be **awesome**! Gil, how do you do it? HOW THE HELL DO YOU DO IT?"

Oh, Gott. Mattie was swearing. Mattie _never_ swore. Maybe this was a mistake …

Nah. Gilbert hadn't made a mistake. He was too **awesome** to make mistakes.

The Prussian sighed. Might as well tell the truth. "Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"I don't know."

"You don't –"

"I've always been **awesome**. I've always _known_ I was **awesome**. I was born **awesome**, and _verdammt_, I'm gonna _die_ **awesome**. Actually, if I died, the world would probably explode from the lack of **awesomeness** caused by my death, and –"

Gilbert was interrupted by a loud _SMASH_! Mattie was breaking the furniture now. Definitely not good.

Prussia would've stopped him – the hotel probably wouldn't be thrilled about the destruction of the room, and he didn't want Canada to get hurt or anything because of it – but he knew all too well that sometimes, destroying things is necessary in the process of getting one's anger out (although he usually used a crop, not a hockey stick.)

"It's not fair, dammit!"

_CRASH!_

"Why does it have to be so –"

_BOOM!_

"– hard for me and so –"

_SMASH!_

"– easy for you?"

_THUD!_

"All you have to do is –"

_THWONK!_

"– believe you're **awesome**, and … wait a second …"

The Canadian paused in his stress relief (with his hockey stick _dangerously close_ to Prussia's precious five meters) and stared straight at the Prussian, who would've found it creepy if he hadn't been so mesmerized by Matthew's beautiful violet eyes.

"All you have to do is believe you're **awesome**. So, if I believed I was **awesome** … OH MON DIEU, THAT'S IT!"

The _click_ of a light bulb going on in Canada's head was almost audible.

"What's it?" Gilbert asked. But he was ignored as Matthew began to laugh hysterically and dance around the room like Justin Bieber had just died (and saved Canada from an obscenely large amount of ridicule in the process.)

"I'm **awesome**! I'M **AWESOME **I'M **AWESOME **I'M **AWESOME**! I'm Matthew Williams; I'm Canada; and I'm **awesome**! Did you hear that, Gil? Did you hear that, Kuma-kiku-whatsyourface? Did you hear that, Gilibird? Did you hear that, world? I'm **awesome**! **Awesome** is what I am! _**I'M AWESOME**_!"

Once again, Prussia could do nothing but watch, but for a different reason this time. It was the first time since he'd met Matthew that he'd seen the Canadian truly happy, and he was really enjoying the sight.

_You should laugh more often, Mattie, _he thought. _It suits you._

And then, Gilbert discovered something:

Ever since he'd decided that Mattie was **awesome**, all he'd wanted was for Mattie to realize it himself.

What did that mean? He didn't know. He'd never valued another's happiness above his own before.

So, what was Prussia going to do to find out?

Get dead drunk, of course.

Everyone knows that everything makes more sense when you're drunk.

"Hey, Mattie, wanna go out drinking with me to celebrate how **awesome** you are?"

"Sure, but only if it's an **awesome** bar worthy of my **awesome** presence! Hahaha!"

* * *

><p>There was one crucial fact that both <strong>awesome<strong> nations, high off Matthew's **awesome** enlightenment, neglected to consider when they made that plan.

(Not that that was a bad thing, of course. It was just something that, if considered, would have greatly changed future events. Or at least slowed them down a little bit. Actually, it probably wouldn't have changed much at all. But that doesn't sound at all dramatic and good-story-ish, so … um … yeah, just forget this paragraph-in-parentheses ever happened.)

This fact was, in fact, mentioned earlier in the story.

_When Prussia's drinking level reaches the complete-loss-of-inhibitions stage, he has sex with whomever happens to be closest to him._

This particular night, the person who happened to be closest to him was an (also very drunk) Canadian.

* * *

><p><strong>*Cue the ominous music*<strong>

**The plot thickens! Or something. What will happen next?**

**Of course, **_**I **_**know what will happen next. 'Cause I'm the author. Kesesese.**

**(Actually, I've already written part three … it's just not typed yet. You'll probably get it on Monday or Tuesday. IT'S SO LONG, IT'LL TAKE ME HOURS TO TYPE. ARGH.)**

**I type faster if I get more reviews, though! *Hint hint***


	3. Drei: Awesome

**HOW TO BE AWESOME**

**Okay! After some bashing myself for being an idiot (I left this on my dad's laptop without emailing it to myself or uploading it or putting it on a flash drive, and then was driven hours away from said laptop) I blackmailed my dad into emailing this to me, and so, HERE'S THE LAST PART! IT'S REALLY LONG! BUT I LOVE IT DEARLY!**

**Anyway, without further ado ...**

* * *

><p><strong>DREI: Awesome<strong>

When most people wake up after a night of drunk, violent sex, they don't remember what happened right away, and have to be reminded.

Prussia was too **awesome** for that. He remembered everything as soon as he woke up.

He remembered the sight of Matthew's terrible, almost feral (but so sexy) smile … the taste of Matthew's lips (maple syrup and Spanish wine) ... the smell of Matthew's body (salty sweat) … the feel of Matthew's breath when he whispered "Awesome." Into Gilbert's ear (so **awesome** it turned him on) … the sound Matthew made when he slid into Gilbert (wait, that couldn't be right, it must be the other way around; Gilbert was too **awesome** to bottom) … Matthew, Matthew, Matthew … _every single __**awesome**__ detail._

The Canadian himself, on the other hand, wasn't quite so lucky.

When _he_ woke up, all he felt was that his head hurt. A ton. It was like Francis was humping inside of it or something. (Oh, _mon dieu, _horrible image. Someone find this guy some brain bleach.) He was also, even though he'd only just woken up, extremely tired, as if he'd been up until very late the night before.

What had happened the night before, anyway?

He remembered some **awesome** Spanish wine, some awkward attempts at dancing, some more **awesome** Spanish wine, a pair of lips on his, and … it all went black.

Well, there were also memories from his alter ego – the drunk, badass, fighter, Viking-esque Canada – but he was too scared of his alter ego to even _look_ at those.

The hung over Canadian groaned weakly and rolled over in bed, wishing someone could make this damned headache go away.

_I bet Gil could make I go away. Or he could distract me until I forgot about it … he'd be good at that …_

For some reason, Matthew's mental images of Gilbert "distracting" him were much more vivid than they were the last time he imagined them.

Suddenly, the bed practically _bounced_ up and down as someone sat down on it.

Why was someone on Matthew's bed? Why was someone in his room, for that matter? WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED THE PREVIOUS NIGHT?

"Oh, you're awake! _Guten morgen,_ Mattie! Kesesese!"

Oh, well, speak of the devil.

The Prussian was grinning widely, practically glowing with happiness. Matthew wondered why, and then figured that he'd probably met a hot girl the previous night and had great sex with her. Then, he wondered why he was jealous of the anonymous hot girl.

Ahem.

Anyway.

In one of Prussia's hands was a half-empty beer bottle and in the other was a wurst. His hair was in no semblance of order, but that simply amplified its sexiness. And, well, there was another thing, something that the Canadian was trying his hardest to ignore, but failing hugely …

The albino was completely and totally naked. Butt naked. Not a scrap of clothing on his body. Clad in only his birthday suit.

However you put it, it was **awesome**.

Matthew was trying very hard not to openly drool.

Gilbert, of course, idiot that he was, thought the Canadian's staring was directed at his beer and wurst.

"If you want some," the Prussian said, "you'll have to get it yourself. This **awesome** breakfast is for The **Awesome** Me and The **Awesome** Me alone."

"I … I think I'll order room service," Canada stuttered in reply.

"Okay, sure." Prussia grabbed a telephone from the bedside table and searched in the hotel directory until he found the number for room service. "Whaddya want? Make it **awesome**, though, because –"

"**Awesome** people can only eat **awesome** food, I know," Matthew stated in a monotone.

"So, I'll get you some beer and wurst, then?"

"No!" the Canadian exclaimed.

"What?" The Prussian was confused. "What food could be more **awesome** than beer and wurst? Besides me, of course."

_Okay, weird images from that one, _Matthew thought. _Though, strangely, I don't want any brain bleach this time._

"Pancakes and maple syrup,"' he explained.

"I don't think The **Awesome** Me has ever tried that. Therefore, it must be un-**awesome**."

"But it's The **Awesome** Me's favorite food, therefore it's _very_ **awesome**!"

"Mattie! You're really learning! How **awesome**! As an **awesome** reward, I'll let you order whatever you want."

"**Awesome**."

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later, Matthew had an <strong>awesome<strong> plate of pancakes and syrup to eat and an **awesome** Gilbert to ogle, but he still didn't know what had happened the previous night. And since Gilbert, even though he obviously knew what happened, also thought _Matthew_ knew what happened, and thus acted like the entire thing was completely normal, the situation looked uncomfortable.

_Merde, I'm going to have to actually __**ask**__ him if I ever want to find out,_ the Canadian thought. _I'll be able to do it and he'll give me an answer, because I'm __**awesome**__, but … ugh. I'll ask him after I finish this pancake. Or this one. Or maybe this one. Or …_

"Wow, Mattie, you eat fast," Gilbert remarked, taking a swig of beer.

Matthew looked down and found that he'd devoured the entire plate of pancakes and syrup.

_Merde._

_Okay, Matt. Be __**awesome**__. You can do it, it's no big deal, just be __**awesome**_.

"Gil, what happened last night?"

_And I didn't even sound nervous! I really am __**awesome**_. The Canadian mentally gave himself a high five.

"Huh? You don't know?" Prussia was surprised. "I thought someone as **awesome** as you would definitely remember something as **awesome** as last night! I mean, I remember every single **awesome** detail, and, I'm telling you, it was **awesome**. But you should know that, right, because you were there …"

"GIL!" Matthew shouted impatiently. "Just tell me!" Ow, now his throat hurt.

"Okay, okay, okay …" the Prussian looked down at his beer bottle and his normally pale face turned light pink. "The **Awesome** Me fucked The **Awesome** You."

"Eh?"

"The. **Awesome. ** Me. Fucked. The. **Awesome. ** You."

With the sort of effort it takes Spain to not glomp Romano after they haven't seen each other for an entire hour, the Canadian resisted the urge to start one of his infamous rambling panic attacks – _Oh, mon dieu, no! That can't be true! I always wanted my first time to be special, not drunk, and I can't even remember it, and I wish I did, because it was with Gilbert, and thus really __**awesome**__, but I can't remember it WHY CAN'T I REMEMBER IT?_

The old, un-**awesome** Canada would have simply said all of that, but the new, **awesome** Canada had other plans.

Plans like this:

He grinned as shyly and sweetly as he could – did Gilbert just stop breathing for a second? – and asked, "Was it really, really **awesome**?"

"Y … yeah," the Prussian whispered. His red eyes twinkled mischievously, and then he added, "Want me to show you how **awesome** it was?"

Oh, _dieu_, how was Matthew supposed to respond to _that_? He would go with his **awesome **instincts … but his **awesome** instincts were telling him to say, "Yes!" and attack Gilbert's lips with his own. What?

_Okay, Matt. Just be __**awesome**__. You're __**awesome**__ you're __**awesome**__ you're __**awesome**__ Gilbert is sexy you're __**awesome **__- AHH! HOLY SWEET MAPLE, WHAT IS HE DOING?_

"You had a little bit of syrup on your cheek," the Prussian explained, removing his tongue from the cheek of a _very_ flustered (and turned on) Canadian.

"Oh, and, um … Mattie?" Gilbert added a bit nervously. "Does it … hurt?"

"Does what hurt?"

"Your vital regions. I'm usually kinda … uh … _violent_ when I invade vital regions, and …"

Oh. That. Ah. He thought about it, and … oh, that was strange, especially since he was – or, well, used to be – a virgin …

"Well," the Canadian said slowly, "they don't. At all."

"Weird," the albino mused. "Mine hurt quite a bit."

Suddenly, his face went white. Whiter than it already was. And here Canada thought it wasn't possible.

"Mattie, do you realize what this means?"

"Eh?"

"_You topped._"

"I did _what_?" Matthew nearly squeaked. "But I … I've never even had _sex_ before!"

"Really?" Gilbert looked thoughtful. "You seemed pretty experienced. You were really violent and strong, and you kept growling at me … it was **awesomely** hot …"

After the shock – _Gil called me hot!_ – wore off, Matthew figured it out. "That was my alter ego, the drunk, badass, fighter, Viking-esque Canada. He comes out when I get really drunk."

"Ah. Well, that makes sense."

Then, the Canadian had a horrible thought. What if Gilbert only wanted to … ah … have sex with him when they were drunk? What if he only liked the drunk, badass, fighter, Viking-esque Canada, not the normal Canada? Matthew wasn't entirely sure why he found this so horrible, but he did.

Luckily, it wasn't the case.

"Next time, let's do it when we aren't drunk, okay?" the Prussian said. "I think it'll be more **awesome** that way."

_Next time? So there __**will**__ be a next time!_ Mathew found himself grinning happily like someone who has discovered that his love is returned.

Oh, wait …

Anyway.

The Prussian saw, and returned the grin. It was such a wonderful, glowing, joyous, **awesome** grin that Matthew decided to act on his **awesome** instincts.

* * *

><p>Gilbert <strong>Awesome<strong> Beilschmidt was happy.

Not a lame, Feliciano kind of happy, either, but an **awesome**, I-beat-that-Hungarian-bitch-in-a-fight kind of happy.

As for _why_, well, that should be obvious.

He was making out with his Mattie, and his Mattie wasn't drunk, but still enjoying it. He'd been scared that Mattie would only want to fuck while drunk (hey, that kind-of rhymed, kesese) but … not true.

Well, of course it wasn't true! Who _wouldn't_ want to be fucked by (or fuck) the **awesomeness** that was Prussia and his five meters?

… Don't answer that.

He was also happy because he figured it out – all that **awesome** Spanish wine helped him realize why he valued the Canadian's happiness above his own. Now, he just needed to wait for an **awesome** time to tell Mattie …

Meanwhile, making out was **awesome**.

Gilbert ran his fingers through Matthew's soft, golden hair, pausing to tickle the Canadian's ear, making him giggle. The two nations melded their lips together like they never wanted them to come apart, pushing and licking and biting until they were out of breath. When they _did_ stop to breathe, Matthew let out a breathless "Gil!" that made the Prussian's lips return to the Canadian's with full force. Matthew grabbed Gilbert and pulled him closer, his hands like vines, twisting around Gilbert's body.

You know, all the normal things that happen when two guys are **awesomely** making out.

Suddenly, there was a loud _BAM_ and the door to Matthew's hotel room burst open.

The two **awesome** nations looked up, irritated, to find …

"Bruder, what is going on?"

"Oh, so you guys are lovers now? That's great, ve!~"

… Germany and Italy interrupting their make-out session.

This did not make either man happy.

Unhappy Prussians and Canadians are bad for your health.

Especially if your name is Ludwig or Feliciano.

* * *

><p>A little while later, Matthew was having second thoughts.<p>

"Are you sure that was _necessary_?" he asked nervously. "I mean, they _did_ have good intentions. Getting us to the meeting on time and all that …"

The Prussian scoffed, finding and pulling on his shirt. 'That doesn't matter. They still interrupted our **awesome** fun, which was un-**awesome**, so they were **awesomely** punished. Man, I can't believe we forgot about the meeting," he added, finding his pants.

"We?" The Canadian pulled on his favorite t-shirt, the one that looked like his flag. "You might've forgotten, but The **Awesome** Me didn't. I simply had more **awesome** things to think about."

Gilbert laughed. "You've learned well, young padawan."

"Yeah, but …" Matthew sighed. "I still don't know what I'll do for my speech."

"Oh, you'll be fine," Gilbert assured him. "You know why?"

"Why?"

"Because you're **awesome**. And _ich liebe dich_."

"Eh?"

"_Gott_, do I have to repeat _everything_ when I talk to you? Un-**awesome**, Mattie."

"GIL, I DON'T SPEAK GERMAN!"

"Right … well … _ich liebe dich._ I love you."

"… Oh."

Staring into the albino's bright, ruby-red eyes, Matthew finally realized what he'd subconsciously known for days … weeks … months … since he'd first met the Prussian.

"I love you, too."

"And that's why your speech will be **awesome**! It'll be so **awesome**, it'll be **Prussian**!"

"No, it won't."

"It won't?"

"It'll be even more **awesome** than something Prussian. It'll be ..."

"What?"

"… _**Canadian**_."

* * *

><p>"Hello, everybody. I'm Matthew Williams, otherwise known as Canada. And I just wanted to let you know that I'm <strong>awesome<strong>, I know it, you should know it, and I'm not going to be ignored anymore. In fact, anyone who ignores me, forgets my name, doesn't notice me, or doesn't at least consider my opinion when I voice it from now on will feel the wrath of my hockey stick. Thank you."

* * *

><p><strong>DON'T DOUBT THE WRATH OF CANADA'S HOCKEY STICK, GUYS. IT'S VERY ... UH ... MANLY AND ... UH ... WRATHFUL. AND ALSO VERY CANADIAN.<strong>

**And you gotta love Ludwig's and Feli's great interruption skills, right? (But don't worry; Prussia gets revenge on them in the GerIta oneshot I'm posting in a few minutes. That's right, not only did I finish typing up this story, I finally typed up the GerIta oneshot that's been lying in my fanfiction notebook for the past month. GO ME!)**

**According to word count, out of the 6,800-odd total words in this story, the word "awesome" appears 181 times. Which is very, very awesome. I mean, Prussian. I mean, Canadian. I mean … ARGH.**

**ALSO: Those of you who reviewed part ein know the awesome story related to the quote I put in the A/N of that part. Well, if you want to see the sand castle from that story, guess what? YOU CAN. I took a picture of it and put it on dA. ****http : / owlinaminor . deviantart . com / art / Elisabeth - and - Her - Protectors - 254483225**

**Finally, I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed, favorited, subscribed to, or even just read this story. I LOVE YOU ALL. (In a totally platonic way, of course.)**

**So ... review?**

**Reviews feed my plot bunnies.**

**(If you want to see more of my writing, put me on Author Alert, 'cause I have a US/UK drabble series coming soon! And by soon, I mean next Friday. Probably.)**


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